


pyrophobia

by dreadfulbeauties



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: ...should have tagged this relationship earlier whoops, Abusive Parents, Gen, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, but anyways there's a lot to unpack with this story, specific content warnings will be featured with every new chapter if applicable, this is the last time i'll update the tags i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25558087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadfulbeauties/pseuds/dreadfulbeauties
Summary: There's a mirror, with cracks that spiderweb their way across its transparent surface. Laurence doesn't like that mirror, because he sees things he'd rather not.(Series of Laurence-centric vignettes.)
Relationships: Laurence/Ludwig (Bloodborne)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. fireflies

Laurence does not remember what his first word is, but he suspects it may be “sorry”.

It’s a word well-fitted to his mouth, the two syllables so familiar to him and always repeated in that exact same intonation. It’s a word that slips out of him, ghost-like from his throat into the air. He has been taught (though perhaps unintentionally) by Mama that no matter how hard he tries he will never be enough. 

He says sorry even when Mama grabs hold of his hand, bony fingers pinching sharply into his wrist, and holds it above the fire where the pot should be, flames licking at his palm. Sorry for interrupting even when there is a pause in the room. He clings to the word sorry, because it is the closest he has to a reminder that he is something.

That word has infected him, choking him from his voice box and slithering in between words every few sentences. Mama never acknowledges it when he says he’s sorry, even when she sends his music teacher away with anger lines distorting her face and voice yelling scratchily, it’s still _his_ fault. But that’s where everything descends into paradox: Laurence says nothing, and Mama screams at him because he should have and he ruined everything, yet he knows if he did tell her about his music teacher she’d accuse him of lying.

He’d said sorry to his music teacher too. And he remembers thinking that for a time he was doing something right — in between the touching, Laurence remembers being told how pretty he is — but that can’t be it. What happened to him was wrong, and his fault — he couldn’t even have done much to change what happened.

He’s always wrong. He recognizes that much.


	2. saint bernard

He meets Micolash at Byrgenwerth. Micolash, with his dark hair and dull eyes staring out of that hollow, gaunt face. Laurence spends more time with Micolash even though his words sting enough to make it feel as though he’s bleeding — tiny, precise cuts littering his arms and face — but that’s only because he tells the truth. All he’ll be is that spoiled little boy from all those years who spends too much time complaining.

Then there’s Master Willem — Ludwig, too. Their words don’t sting so or feel as though a knife is slicing into his tongue, silencing him as blood warms in his mouth. Ludwig holds his hands and speaks to him softly. He tells Laurence that he likes him, admires his diligence. Laurence doesn’t say anything. He smiles and nods, feeling as though there’s glass peppering the inside of his mouth.

_What if that went away? What if that diligence and intellect was never there?_

“Thank you, Ludwig.” _I don’t think you’d like me then. Not at all._

He hears during his first winter at Byrgenwerth that his mother is pregnant and remarried. There’s a baby on the way, he hears.

It’s a little sister. Mama names his sister Amelia, and Laurence is eight years old when she is born. She’s so fragile, a living doll swaddled in blankets when Laurence sees her, blinking those bright brown eyes up at him. The wispy curls of hair on her head are blonde, and she reaches up pudgy little hands to grasp Laurence’s finger.

He tells Master Willem he’s worried about his sister — slowly, ever slowly, he’s learned that just because someone’s words sting does not mean they are right.

“I think she’ll be well cared for, Laurence, even though you’ve every right to worry. She’ll be loved.”

_I hope she’ll be._

In one hand, he holds Ludwig’s — calloused but strong, gripping his fingers loosely. In the other he holds Micolash’s — bony, twisting fingers that grip hold of him so tight that he might bruise.

_I just don’t know if that’ll be true._

The snow falls outside, painting the world in white.

_It wasn’t very true for me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...this is a bit of a vent. i've had some pent-up stress and anger as of late for reasons i don't care to divulge, but writing this helped me a little. don't worry, it has nothing to do with family - my relationships with them are fine. 
> 
> thank you for reading. please take care of yourselves.


	3. forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: implied sexual abuse.

He tells Amelia stories.

Stories of princesses in gold-trimmed ball gowns that sweep over the floors of a far away palace, of not-quite humans that grant wishes at the request of a poor soul on the verge of breaking, and of happy endings. He notices that his mother is gentler with Amelia. She rarely raises her voice to a grating shout with her, never pinches her wrist or tells her what she’s doing wrong and that’s all she’ll ever do.

(“I made mistakes,” is what she says, “And I’m trying to atone for them.”)

She keeps making her mistakes with Laurence, though.

He starts taking long walks in the woods just beyond Byrgenwerth. He can feel the grass rustling beneath his boots, pretend he leaves an invisible handprint whenever he presses his fingertips to the tree trunks. Sometimes, Laurence wonders what might happen if he just broke into a run and ran far, far away into the woods, never to come. Happy endings certainly don’t exist beyond those glittering confines of fairy tales, after all.

Ludwig goes with him on those walks, sometimes. He’s got to keep up the facade so that people don’t whisper snide things behind his back, after all. He doesn’t know what waits for him beyond Byrgenwerth, doesn’t want to graduate and leave Willem behind. So he throws himself into studying, devours tales of the Old Blood that can heal all wounds it touches.

The first time Ludwig kisses him, it is after he asks.

At first he leans into it. He rests his hands on Ludwig’s shoulders, closing his eyes and tasting orange rinds and mint that he’d chewed on. Sweet and sharp. That sweetness becomes sickening soon enough, because he starts to think.

_That was your music teacher, telling you that this is alright because it’s what grown-ups do and because you’re so mature for your age, you remember, right? You said sorry and you think from time to time you were never that mature—_

He pulls away from Ludwig. The stomach inside his brain vomits.

“I don’t feel like kissing anymore,” is all he says.

He feels small again. He’s just a helpless, wide-eyed child whose fervent mumbles of “sorrys’” will never be enough, whose hands burn cold and hot at the same time from being clamped down on the flame under the pot. He keeps on walking with Ludwig, deeper and deeper into the woods till twilight settles and they turn back, but the words carved into his mind are simply _this is not for me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feeling considerably better than i was a little while ago.
> 
> thank you for reading. comments are appreciated.


	4. heart of stone

If the world were sweet and fair (and if Laurence was, too), Ludwig would gather him up in his arms and hold him close, never thinking for a moment that he ought to let go.

But that is not the world they walk upon. And Laurence has been held too close far too many times before — choking, suffocating, people telling him what he is instead of bothering to let him go long enough to pick up the broken pieces. Ludwig knows better. He knows that Laurence should not be told things about him.

He’s always there. A ghost, but hardly one to haunt him.

To Laurence, he’s unbreakable. Nothing can touch Ludwig. Not even when the fires burn. Not even when he stumbles back, strange cracks starting to appear at the edges of his eyes. Laurence gives him the Old Blood so as to stop the cracks, but they grow even more in number.

There are moments when Ludwig is almost a doppelganger of his old teacher and his mother, snapping sharply at Laurence when he so much asks for something. Those are far and in between and when he sees Laurence flinch and turn his head away, he remembers that a heart of stone is hardly a bad thing. If you’ve got a heart of stone, Laurence reasons to him, that means it will never be broken. It will be weathered away, rained upon, but it will not break like something softer and more malleable. The stone will always remain.

While that heart of stone remains, for Laurence, Ludwig himself does not.

By now Laurence isn’t even sure what he is. Flames crawl across his vision. He can blink those away, though. At least whenever he bothers to ingest the old Blood, the pain stops.

(But Gehrman doesn’t think so. Neither did Willem. Ought he to tell them?)

The night Ludwig says goodbye — the last night he says something to Laurence — he is at least himself.

“I love you,” he says, pulling scratchy arms around Laurence and letting him bury his face in his neck. _Don’t go, don’t go, please stay, we can fix this, I can fix the Church, it was my fault but I’m not the person Mother always said I was, I swear—_

“Go.”

Eyes stinging with tears, Laurence nods. He leaves Ludwig one last kiss, this one full of sharp teeth. _I will be as unbreakable as you are. I will harden my heart to stone._

He runs away and does not look back.


	5. colors

The world is not sapped of color after Ludwig. Rather, it’s far too saturated in it.

Everything is blindingly bright, melting in bold hues and contaminating Laurence, dripping down his hands and teeth. He opens his mouth and finds color — putrid color — inside. Everything is too much, the ground too solid beneath his feet, the sky too far above his head, the world too sharp and visible.

But he has to keep going. He’s the first Vicar. 

(Did Micolash know? Micolash who’d softened since they first met and tried so hard to reach out to him?)

He still thinks Micolash reaches out to him, bony hand struggling to keep hold of his so Laurence doesn’t lose himself in colors and heat. It _stings_. It stings deep. He knows Master Willem was right — the Old Blood is the reason everything’s dipped in a violently saccharine coating of color. It’s the reason for his pounding headaches and the spit that burns his throat. It is the reason Amelia’s heavy red curls fade to white, once springy ringlets loosening.

He’s come to accept that this is what he deserves — as has Gehrman. He begs for Gehrman to leave him be and let him rot, Amelia is gone and the Healing Church might as well be gone too. 

But Amelia hasn’t.

Nights are for when she holds his frail, twitching body wrapped up in sheets close to her, sobbing and monochrome. “I’m scared, Laurence,” she hiccups out, “I don’t want you to die. I don’t want you to die. You’re all I’ve got _left_ — not Mama, not Father, not Ludwig. Please, by the Blood, get well.”

Gehrman faded into the background once Ludwig stepped up as hunter — no one wanted an aging hunter, not when there was Ludwig gripping a shining sword, armor gleaming beneath the moonlight. But the Hunters are all near dead, lost to nightmares.

He doesn’t want this. But the slowness in his body and the numbness that comes with colors aren’t his own.


	6. split idol

It’s like ink.

Ink dripping out of the sockets of his eyes, black trailing ooze down his skin _melting_ him. Laurence can feel the thin layer of flesh stretching over muscle burning away, hear the crack of his bones shifting and melding around his organs.

He’s been getting sick again and again. It’s as though he’s just woken up, vision permanently blurry. He can’t see anything properly. Strange — he’s always shied away from fire, knowing what happened every time his mother forced his hand down upon the stove. 

But now he welcomes it. Knowing that he’s no longer who he once was is tearing him in half. Burning ink clogs his throat and he chokes out a scream. The pain only begins to settle upon him after the fact. Once upon a time he was the statue the people of Yharnam presented in their village, shining beneath the sun.

It was Ludwig first. Then Maria. Then Micolash. Then others he can’t name. Amelia’s still here, even though her red curls are streaked with white.

Now his turn has come.

The statue has grown worn over the years. Green leaks into marble and it cracks and shifts, giving way, so malleable. It’s not over yet. He’s trapped here because it’s his fault, and he didn’t think to consider it till now — too late.

So Laurence waits, drowning in the nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...this has been an interesting writing experience. it's quite difficult to explain just how much laurence's character means to me - he's sort of a comfort character, if you will. again, tricky to explain. but even though i'm fairly new to bloodborne and the lore the game entails, i find laurence to be very compelling for a character we don't know a lot about.
> 
> this has also been a cathartic experience, too. i can't say my experiences in life are too similar to laurence's (if anything, i find that my version of amelia is a bit more closer in terms of personality to me than her brother) but... i think my venting through him via this fic has helped me.
> 
> so, here ends pyrophobia. thank you for taking your time to read this, and i hope you enjoy your day. take care of yourselves and stay safe. <3

**Author's Note:**

> this is to be updated sporadically. don't really have much to say about this one.
> 
> thank you for reading. please take care of yourselves


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